


blonde, rich, and a little bit of a bitch

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs, pete is a stripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just a job, Patrick tells himself as he pulls up to the strip club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blonde, rich, and a little bit of a bitch

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a million years ago oopsy. i apologize if there's any whorephobia in this, i absolutely don't mean there to be! sex workers deserve all the love and respect due a human being. please let me know if there is any so i can fix it!!

It’s just a job, Patrick tells himself as he pulls up to the strip club. 

It’s just a job, he tell himself again as he gets through the doors, and again as the smell of glitter bodypaint and alcohol washes over him. He repeats it like a mantra as he makes his way to the back and down the narrow little hallway marked ‘employees only’. 

He pushes through the door to the DJ booth and smiles sourly at the chipper dude pulling the shift before him. 

“Hey, Stump!” the guy says. Patrick’s got the vague idea his name is Dallon, but he isn’t entirely sure. 

There is a slight possibility he is a little grumpy about working in a strip club every night. 

“Hey,” he says, and edges his way around the cramped space to set up. There’s a lull between performers, Dallon’s queued a short list tracks to keep the mood up with minimal effort. No one’s looking at the DJ booth for the moment, at least, which is pretty much the way he likes it. The focus should be on the performers, anyway. 

“You have Urie, then I think some group stuff, they left a CD for you,” Dallon says chattily, gathering up his stuff. “I think that uh, the new ones are up? Tyler and Josh? Anyway. They’re good with standard whatever I think, no theme. And then you have Wentz on last.” 

“Wentz?” Patrick frowns and pauses in his mindless routine checking of the systems. 

He knows about Wentz, he knows about all the performers. But he’d never worked on the same nights as the dude before and has no idea what type of music to be playing. 

“Problem?” Dallon pops his head up and raises and eyebrow. Patrick shakes off the unease and shrugs. 

“I’ve never worked with him before. What does he want?” 

Dallon laughs, short and hard, and Patrick’s heart sinks. 

“He’s um, unique.” Dallon snaps his bag shut and stands. “It’s cool though, he’s got a CD around here somewhere, just play that through. You can’t miss it. Just watch out, he likes to go rogue on the floor a lot more than most of the performers and uh. He climbs stuff.” 

“Fuck,” Patrick exhales, and buries his head in his hands. He _hates_ when performers go rogue, there’s no way to anticipate how the music should respond. And there’s no fucking telling how the audience will react. 

“Have fun!” Dallon says cheerfully and closes the door in Patrick’s face. 

Patrick groans and knuckles at his forehead once, knocking his fedora askew. He can feel a headache brewing already. 

Queueing up Urie’s music is easy, he’s got a standard act as far as Patrick’s experience goes. Announcing is easy too, after so much practice, the patter falling off his tongue like the practiced, pre-planned lines they are. Patrick is practically snoozing in the booth, bouncing along a little bit whenever he feels particularly moved but mostly zoning. The group is a bit of a clusterfuck but it’s not his fault, he just queues in the CD and lets it roll. 

Tyler and Josh are interesting, a little more free-style and a lot more freedom, and Patrick slips in a little bit of a jazzy edge that actually goes over well. It gives him hope for the rest of the evening - for Wentz - and he shuffles through the little stack of CD’s in the corner of the booth absently during the break. 

He finds Wentz’s CD at the very bottom of the stack, under Saporta’s ‘CobraMix v. 8’, and as soon as he sees it his heart sinks. 

_Kingston Wentz’s Delightful Tunes to Shake Ass To_ , it says, and there are stickers. Shiny ones. Holographic, colorful shiny ones. There’s no tracklist, not that Patrick was really expecting one, but still. 

Fucking _Kingston Wentz_. Patrick can tell he’s gonna hate the dude. 

He queues the CD anyway and steps back to get a decent view of the stage. He’s got no idea what’s about to happen, which is interesting enough to shake him out of his stupor. 

The beat comes out of the speakers and Patrick blinks because holy _shit_ , is that _funk_?

It turns out to absolutely be funk and then Wentz is coming onstage and, fuck, Patrick is _screwed_. 

Wentz is tiny and he’s grinning, a grin that says he’s got a secret he’s going to tell you in a minute when he’s finally finished laughing about it. He’s shirtless already, showing off a truly well-defined body and some interesting tattoos, but Patrick is mostly distracted by the fucking _kilt_ he’s wearing. He’s pretty sure there’s a _sporran_ too. 

Patrick has seen strippers in skirts, male and female and both and neither. He’s not judging, he’s all sorts of supportive of all gender expressions. That’s not what’s throwing him for a loop. 

An obviously genuine kilt is a new one. And according to the twitch Patrick’s dick gives, it apparently does it for him. 

Wentz is in motion before Patrick can really catch his bearings, off down the stage toward the pole like he’s got a mission. He’s bouncy, doing something with his torso that twists and shows off his tattoos to maximum effect. 

He reaches the pole and leans back against it, hips jutting out towards the crowd. He’s still grinning, sly and wide and Patrick normally couldn’t care less what a random person would taste like but he wants to know now. He wants to know what it would taste like to kiss that grin away. 

Patrick misses a moment, and when he blinks back Wentz’s kilt is dropping down his legs. They’re spread, meaning he has to ease the material down his thighs slowly. 

Patrick is pretty sure he sees black and lace past the dark folds of the kilt and when the whole thing falls to the ground he’s not disappointed. 

Black boyshorts, lace-covered something shiny with even more lace edging. It looks good against Wentz’s skin and Patrick’s mouth inexplicably goes dry. What the _fuck_ , Patrick is so fucked. He hates himself for it but he leans forward a little for a better view. 

Obligingly Wentz kicks away the material of the kilt and spins once around the pole, showing off and grinning the whole damn time. 

It’s awful and it’s cliche and it pisses Patrick off that it’s happening but he can feel his dick stirring in his pants. It’s something about the faded dark of Wentz’s tattoos, the flash of the glitter on his skin, the way his muscles move under his skin. Something deep in his stomach pulling tight with want. 

Wentz twists up the pole like a fucking _master_ , flipping upside down like it’s nothing and then swinging back down to land on the balls of his feet and bowing, sweeping down in a way that looks like he doesn’t even know the way it shows off his ass. 

He absolutely knows, he’s a stripper, but the illusion is there and Patrick’s mouth is still dry. 

There’s a beat where Wentz holds his pose and Patrick hisses, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock. He’s halfway hard in his pants and he’s pissed off about it, resentful of how much effect Wentz has on him. 

But then Wentz is in motion and _off the fucking stage_ and Patrick’s boner takes a backseat to panic. He lunges forward and tracks Wentz with his eyes, fingers hovering over the control panel. His cock twinges at the lack of attention but Patrick ignores that. 

Wentz’s not doing anything too bad, though, shimmying his way around tables and dancing out of people’s grasps with a wink to soothe over any ruffled feathers. He’s obviously experienced at this, knows the music well enough to work with it, and Patrick relaxes a little. Just a little. 

Wentz reaches the wall Patrick’s DJ booth is set into and Patrick waits for him to head back to the stage. Except life hates Patrick and Wentz absolutely doesn’t do that. 

Instead he slides up and climbs the little half-wall separating Patrick from the rest of the room and balances there. 

‘ _He climbs shit_ ’, Patrick’s white Chicago ass. Patrick is going to kill Dallon. 

Wentz stays on the wall for a few seconds, body moving to the beat, but his eyes are on Patrick. 

They’re dark, and the grin is still fucking there, and Patrick can’t look away. There’s something predatory about the way Wentz is watching him, something that makes his cock harden and his heart beat faster in his chest. He’s trapped against the side of the booth and he wants to reach out and touch so badly the need is aching in his fingertips. 

Wentz’s got legs for miles, it turns out, and more tattoos than Patrick could make out on the stage. The panties are just a little tight too, pressing into Wentz’s hips and leaving faint pink marks Patrick wants to bite down on. 

Wentz reaches out and Patrick doesn’t know if he wants to lean into it or bolt for the door. 

Then Wentz hooks Patrick’s hat off his head with a laugh and jumps off, bouncing back to the stage with Patrick’s hat on his head. It looks fucking good, his hat and the way the panties hug Wentz’s ass and nothing else. Patrick doesn’t know if he wants to kick Wentz’s ass or grab it more. 

He does know he’s going to the dressing rooms when the set is all done to retrieve his hat, though. His hats are fucking sacred.


End file.
